


Silk Pillows Tell No Tales

by Seonaid



Series: But Keep Your Enemies Closer [3]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seonaid/pseuds/Seonaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco had only one thought. “I will never betray the Khan, and Jingim. Never. I am but one poor merchant, my life is meaningless. I will not be the one to take down a dynasty through betrayal.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk Pillows Tell No Tales

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part Three of Keep Your Enemies Closer. The next part will be the finale. This part veers wildly away from canon. Sorry. The story just took off. My apologies to lovers of Ahmad. (I actually love him, too.) Thanks to my amazing Beta Aislinn.

It had been two weeks since Marco had seen Jingim. Their midnight sojourn on the steppes was becoming a distant memory. When they had first returned, Marco basked in the sensual glow of a passion filled night, and thought that there may be some kind of future for him and the Prince. They had left each other after a silent ride holding hands and gazing at the night sky. He had slept soundly, feeling sure that the Prince no longer felt animosity towards him but perhaps something more sympathetic. Now, he wasn't so sure.

He and Byamba had continued to investigate the assassination attempt on the Khan. They had tracked down all leads and made inquiries as to who may have hired the 3 assassins. They knew only that it was someone within the walls of the palace.

Their greatest suspicion lay with the Finance Minister Ahmad who was a trusted member of the court, though not related to the Khan by blood. He was smooth and handsome, always presenting with perfect manners, dress and conduct. Never a hair out of place, his face serene and flawless, Ahmad kept his beard trimmed neatly, his long shiny hair tied back with leather thongs. Marco hated him. He was as close to Jingim as the other brothers of the court. He was entrusted with all the riches of the empire, and yet, there was something about him that made Marco's skin crawl. When Marco had first observed Ahmad and Jingim's interactions, he had jealously thought that they might be lovers. But, as time went on, he realized what the Prince did not - that Ahmad had courtly ambitions that did not include Jingim. Too often, Marco had caught a sly look at Jingim's retreating back, noticed a shift in his features when the Prince was not looking. There was nothing specific, but Marco did not trust the man at all.

As the days passed, each lead led to a dead end. The trail was cooling and Marco and Byamba were running out of time. The daily life in the Palace settled back down to normal. It did not seem possible that they would discover any evidence to confirm or deny their suspicions. His thoughts swayed more and more to Jingim and what he was doing, who he was seeing, and where he was spending his time. Everywhere he went, he looked to see if Jingim was nearby. He played board games with the Khan and spent many hours writing in his journals about the culture and geography of this country. The days went quickly but the nights, less so. Marco lay in his humble dwelling staring at lines of moonlight shining through the loose boards onto the rough planks of the ceiling. His pallet was hard, his blankets thin. And yet, he was much better off than most of the Khan's slaves. He was treated more as a guest. He had everything he needed, his daily life was frugal but satisfying. His time at the Court of the Great Khan was an unexpected detour in his lifelong travels. But now he could not imagine being anywhere else.

Eventually, a day came when there was a large White Moon celebration in the gathering courtyards of the palace. Everyone from the court was in attendance. Marco, from his place near the back, had to crane his neck to catch a glimpse of the Prince sitting to the right of the Khan, his golden robes lined with fur spilling to the floor. His wives were, as usual, sitting off to the side of Jingim. Marco noticed a woman that he had not seen there before. She was with his other wives, not the group of concubines which were further to the back. This woman was quite beautiful, as they all were, but in a more outstanding way. She never took her eyes off Jingim. A flare of jealousy heated in Marco's chest. Perhaps she was the reason Jingim had been so absent of late. It occurred to Marco what a fool he had been. It was as he had first thought, he was a simple diversion for the Prince. Of course, why had he thought otherwise? The Prince was in position to take over the most powerful throne in the world. He was surrounded by beautiful wives, riches, power, and prestige. The thought that he could love a foreign merchant, a slave no less, was laughable. Marco felt his heart slowly crumbling as he watched the Prince being studiously attentive to the young woman.

Later that evening, when the food was eaten and drink was flowing, the drummers were playing and the dancers were entertaining, Marco slipped away at the first opportunity. He had come to the conclusion during the evening that he had no choice but to leave. He could not bear to watch the Prince from afar, as he got on with his pampered life and forgot all that he had shared with Marco. As he was indentured, he would have to leave without permission, possibly risking his life. The only way was to stealthily move through the revelry, and make his way back to collect his few belongings. He would have to steal a horse, a crime punishable by death in Mongolia, but he had to risk it. He would never get away on foot.

With his bundle on his back, his journals, a few clothes, and food and water for a few days, he silently entered the stables. The horses knew him well and nickered in greeting. As he was stowing his gear on his small pony, he was startled by a noise behind him. Sword drawn, he whirled to find the elderly stable hand Liao, standing with a lantern in one hand and a knife in the other.

“Master Marco, you are leaving us?” he eyed the saddle bags and Marco's travel clothing.

“Yes, Liao. I have a secret mission for the Khan,” he lied. “No one must know of my departure. Very secret. Very important.” Marco hoped his face didn't betray him, just this one time.

Liao narrowed his eyes at Marco, and studied him silently for a moment. Then he bowed and turned to leave. Marco thought - hoped - that he had pulled it off.

He rode all night and most of the next day until he was forced to stop and rest his sturdy pony. He had to figure out where he was going and what his future held, now that he was a fugitive and a thief. He pored over the maps that he had drawn in his journals and settled on making his way to the coast of East China. Once there, he could find a ship to take him back to Venice. It was much too far overland but he thought that eventually, the shipping lanes would sail him home. He knew he would have to find supplies somewhere, as his meager rations would not get him very far. There were villages scattered about the countryside and nomad caravans farther out on the steppes. He would have to take the chance of approaching one or the other to try to bargain or steal what he needed.

On the evening of the second day when his food and water had nearly run out, he entered the small town of Tianjin. Marco tied his horse up outside a drinking establishment, and with his last coin, ordered some ale. He sat staring into his cup with mounting despair. How had he come to be here in this hostile place mere weeks after laying in the arms of the Crown Prince? He laid his head down on his arms across the table and closed his weary eyes. Just a moment of sleep....and then without warning, he felt a sack being pushed over his head and his arms wrenched behind him. Blind and helpless, he felt himself being half-carried, half-dragged out and away. There were shouts, confusion and as he struggled, he heard a vaguely familiar voice. Then, exploding pain and darkness descended.

Marco came to consciousness in a dark, dank room that smelled of fish and hemp ropes. It felt as if some time had passed. He was disoriented, and his head felt like a herd of horses had trampled it. He was lying on a pile of burlap and his hands and feet were tightly bound. He could barely make out shadowy figures moving about but could see little else. He drifted back into a pain filled semi-consciousness. A thought was nagging at the back of his mind, but there was too much pain to think clearly. He passed out.

The next time Marco woke, it was to the dull light of an early morning in stormy skies. He could hear rain pounding down on both wood and water, and everything felt damp and slimy. He managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position. A man speaking an unfamiliar dialect of Chinese was yelling out a door. Footsteps approached and in the doorway stood Ahmad. Awareness rang through Marco as he realized that was the voice in the pub. Ahmad slowly walked over to Marco and squatted down to see him better.

“Hello, Master Marco. How is your head this morning?” Ahmad's voice was smooth, and inappropriately calm considering the circumstances that Marco found himself in.

“Why have you brought me here?” Marco ask thickly, his mouth dry and swollen.

Ahmad smiled serenely and gazed at Marco's puffy eye. “My men were a little rough. Sorry about that. They are always so... enthusiastic.”

“Please, Ahmad. Why have you brought me here? I only want to return to my country. I have nothing you could possibly want.” Marco looked at the hem of Ahmad's deep red robe. It was lying in a puddle of filthy water on the splintery floorboards. He wondered what Ahmad could possibly be doing in a place as squalid as this. It was so out of character for him, it made Marco's mind spin.

“Well, Latin, it seems your love-sick Prince is missing you. My retinue was in this area anyway, so he instructed me to find you. He did want me to bring you back. Unharmed. But, of course, that's not possible. You are already... harmed.” Ahmad made a tsk sound and tilted his head to look sideways at Marco. “And, alas, it was too late when I found you. You had been set upon by highwaymen. A terrible bunch. There was nothing I could do.” He held up one of Marco's journals. “But, I did find this. To return to the Prince. For him to remember you by.”

Marco's stomach was turning over at these words. He knew now that it was unlikely he would get out of this alive. But what he didn't know was why.

“And why am I still alive if you are so anxious to see my end, Ahmad? Do you take pleasure in my suffering?”

“Oh, nothing so barbaric as that, Master Polo. No, no. I find myself needing to know what you know, since I could find nothing of value to me in your journals, just a lot of nattering about food and architecture... no. I have a very specific need of you. I know that you and Byamba have your... suspicions... of me. I really do need to know what you think you know. What evidence Byamba still holds. I can't have the Khan of Khans thinking anything less than, well, than that he has my ultimate loyalty. That just wouldn't do.” 

Ahmad stood up and said as he walked out of the room, “ I'll be back Master Polo and when I do, you will tell me everything I need to know. There are many ways to die.”

Marco lay on the floor and shivered with dread. He was no match for a man such as Ahmad. He had men, money and resources. Marco was tied up, beaten and bereft. Byamba did indeed hold a leather scroll with a drawing of the Khan's private quarters on it. They had not been able to directly connect it to Ahmad or anyone in his offices during their inquiries. Without hard evidence they had nothing. Apparently, Ahmad did not know that they had nothing to connect to him. Marco could see no way out of this predicament. 

He closed his eyes and considered the other words that Ahmad had spoken. Love-sick Prince. If Jingim was so in love with his new wife, why did he give even a passing thought to Marco's absence? But, he knew one thing. If he didn't escape, the Khan's life was surely in jeopardy, as well as Jingim's. Marco's heart clenched at the thought of Jingim lying in a pool of blood somewhere. He must get out of this somehow. With renewed determination, Marco tried to clear his head to think. Ahmad kept him alive because he thought there was evidence connecting him to the assassination attempt. As long as he thought that, Marco would remain alive.

Some time later Ahmad returned with a couple of rough looking thugs. “Have you considered our conversation Marco? Have you been lying here thinking of all the interesting ways to die?” Ahmad gestured to the men to haul Marco to his feet. The ropes were tight, and he could barely feel his feet and lower legs. He pitched forward and a wave of dizziness nearly knocked him out again.

“If you kill me, you will never know what lies in wait for you at the palace. You will spend the rest of your days looking over your shoulder.” Marco swayed and tried to look confident. “But, if you take me back, I can convince Byamba that we made a terrible mistake. That the only guilty one was the man that Jingim executed for stealing tax monies.” Marco offered. “I can make this happen.”

“And what makes you think that you can withstand the pain my men will inflict upon you? What makes you think that you can stay silent until your last breath?” Ahmad's words were chilling.

But Marco had only one thought. “I will never betray the Khan, and Jingim. Never. I am but one poor merchant, my life is meaningless. I will not be the one to take down a dynasty through betrayal.”

“Brave words, Master Polo. Your father would be so proud.” Ahmad turned and waved for the men to follow, dragging Marco along. The men took Marco out onto the dock that floated on the surface of the dirty water of the harbour. They laid Marco down hanging over the edge of the dock and pushed his head down into the disgusting water. Marco could see Ahmad's red robe blurred and distorted through the water as it rushed over his eyes, into his nose and mouth. Marco gasped at the wrong time and inhaled a lungful. He choked and thrashed, trying to raise his head above water. His chest was burning and through his rising panic, he thought only one thing - that he would never see Jingim again. They hauled him up out of the water and left him lying face down on the dock, gasping and gagging, finally vomiting until he could get his breath back. 

Ahmad knelt beside him and said, “Are you ready to talk or do you want to take another dip?” Marco just shook his head and kept spitting foul water out of his mouth. Again, Marco's head went down under the water, but this time, he passed out quickly.

Marco's next awareness was of movement. Bumpy, jarring movement beneath him. Every single bit of his body hurt. His head was pounding, his lungs were raw and burning, his body felt bruised over every inch of it. As he came fully awake, it occurred to him to be shocked that he was still alive. For a while he lay there thinking that he wished he wasn't. Marco realized he was in a wagon or cart of some sort. His hands were untied, and his clothes were dirty but dry so it had been some time since the events on the dock in the harbour. He had no idea where he was, or who he was in the company of. He was too sore to move or speak so he just endured the jarring motion as the hours went on while he drifted in and out of consciousness.

It was dark. Marco was running for his life. A dragon was chasing him, its lethal claws and teeth snapping just out of reach of him. His lungs were burning with the effort, he kept slipping and sliding on slimy boards. The smell of salt and brine was thick in his nostrils. Then he tripped and went down. The dragon was upon him, it's red robe was smothering him. He thrashed his legs while strong hands held him down.

Marco gasped and open his eyes to the carved wooden ceiling above him. The dragons were just lions. Fierce but right where they belonged. The hands holding him were Jingim's, whose face came into view hovering over him.

“Hush, Latin. You are safe. Nothing can hurt you here.” Jingim's voice was firm and exasperated, but with a hint of concern.

Marco stopped struggling and lay back panting. “Jingim... how did...”

Jingim smiled slightly and said, “Prince. My men found you on the docks of Tianjin, like a drowned rat. Nearly lifeless. What on Earth were you thinking, you fool? Stealing a palace horse, running away like a petulant child.” His voice did not match his harsh words, however. He was gently stroking Marco's bruised face while carefully holding his head close to Jingim's chest. Marco realized Jingim was laying beside him on top of the opulent bed coverings, crushed silk pillows tossed here and there. Marco was naked between the smooth sheets.

Tears pricked at Marco's eyes; he blinked and looked away. “What do you care about me, Prince. You have a new wife to concern you now.”

Jimgam raised his thick eyebrows to almost comical heights. “She is not my wife just yet. There will be another Royal Wedding. My father is most concerned about my lack of producing an heir for the kingdom. My mother, Empress Chabi, decided this princess would be a suitable addition to my wives. I have no choice. And anyway, how am I suppose to concentrate on creating an heir when my mind only dwells on thoughts of you? You confound me!” With this, Jingim stood up and stomped around the bed in a circle. “And then, you pull this! Disappearing in the night. A good thing Liao did not believe your story and informed my guards of your flight. As if I have nothing better to do than search the countryside for my sulking slave!” Jingim's hair was beginning to escape the pins that fastened it into the bun at the back of his head.

Marco slowly smiled, watching him fume and pace. “I mean that much to you? That you would send for me, bring me back to your bed?” Marco hardly dared believe what he was hearing. 

Jingim stopped pacing. “Yes, fool. If it were not for Ahmad, I would never have found you. He heard reports of a white round-eye in the fishing village. He sent my men there. He saved you!”  
Marco felt nausea rise in his throat at these words from the Prince. He paled and started to shake.

“NO. That's not how it...” A flurry of activity at the doorway to the Prince's quarters stopped Marco from talking.

“Ah, there he is now. Ahmad! Have you come to see our patient? Good. I must see my father for a short meeting, I am late already. Please stay with Marco until I return.” With that, the Prince swept out of the room before Marco could voice a protest. There was complete silence for a beat, then slow deliberate footsteps into the room coming closer, then muffled by the thick rugs. Ahmad, looking cool as a spring garden, came into view. Marco's shaking intensified.

“Well, well, Master Polo. It seems your luck has not run out quite yet. You weren't thinking of besmirching my good name to the Prince, now were you? Because, that just will not do.”

Marco struggled to control his breathing. He stared silently at the man standing beside his bed. Ahmad continued, “I believe that if you had any proof of my... wrongdoing... you would have already used it. Byamba is a loyal dog to the Khan, but intrigue is not his strong suit. He would have nothing to gain by making unfounded accusations. No, I believe we are at a stalemate.” Ahmad, placed his hands on either side of Marco's head and leaned in closely, voice dropping to barely a whisper. “You will remember our discussion. Your life for your compliance. You will convince the Byamba and the Khan that the guilty party is already dead. And we will remain... friends.”

Marco narrowed his eyes, “That was not our deal, you snake. You tried to kill me. What happened? Did the Prince's men come upon you trying to drown me? How did you wiggle out of this one?”

Ahmad laughed softly, “Yes, that was unfortunate. I heard them coming. We barely escaped unseen. But, the matter at hand is your word against mine. Who do you think would be believed? The man that has impeccably looked after the treasure of the Dynasty for years, or the horse thieving foreign slave?”  
Ahmad, stood up straight, smoothed his robe, and walked slowly out of the room.

Some time later, Jingim returned to a groggy Marco. It would be many days before his body was healed. The worry on his face was plain to see and Jingim sat beside him on the bed. “Calm yourself, Latin. I have made up a story about sending you on an errand for me. Something about purchasing silk for a gown for my new bride.” He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “No one thinks you are a horse thief.”

Marco smiled and kept his tongue. He knew he was at an impasse with Ahmad. And, he thought, his place was here, to keep a watchful eye on the goings on of the palace. The threat was still real. He could do no more at present.

Jingim leaned down and gently kissed Marco's swollen lips. He kissed his bruised face, his eyebrows, his nose and chin. He nuzzled Marco's neck, planting little kisses and nips along his jaw. His face was soft and fragrant against Marco's days-old beard. Marco moved his cheek against the Prince's shiny hair. Everything could wait. As long as Jingim still desired him, he could get through anything.  
Jingim smiled down at him, “Sleep now, foolish one. You are useless to me in this state.” He touched Marco's lip with a gentle finger and silently left the room.


End file.
